Hitch
by subversivegrrl
Summary: (Originally published as "Spy Games") AU Caryl fic, in which working man Daryl accepts a ride from a troubled, mysterious, and beautiful woman, and has his quiet, predictable life turned on its ear. My first attempt at AU.
1. Chapter 1

Daryl hit the hazard lights on the old truck and got out, sighing as he slammed the door behind him. It wasn't any use to raise the hood and look for the problem there; he knew when it had lurched and stalled that once again, his brother had run out all the gas and left him to deal with the consequences. He cursed himself, and Merle, for not getting that broken gauge fixed. Maybe this time he'd learn to take care of things himself instead of trusting his brother's promises to deal with them.

After a few minutes spent considering his options, the sound of an approaching car cut through his thoughts, and he stuck out his thumb, not really expecting anyone to pull over for him. He'd already resigned himself to hoofing it to the nearest phone to call for roadside assistance. And, while he was at it, his boss, to explain that he'd be late. That was a conversation he wasn't looking forward to.

A low-slung convertible, powder blue with a white ragtop, came out of the morning mist, flying past him, then braked abruptly and reversed, pulling back to where he stood. The passenger door popped open, and the driver gunned the engine for a second, like if he hesitated he was going to be left in the dust.

Daryl stooped to look inside, and a woman's voice said, "Where you headed?" He paused, looking back at the truck, and said, "Was goin' to work, up the power plant, east of Newnan."

"Get in."

"Hang on a sec," he said quickly, and stepped back to the truck to grab his jacket and turn off the hazards. It was far enough off the road that he wasn't too worried about it getting clipped, and there was no sense in running down the battery.

He slipped into the passenger seat of the convertible as the woman again revved the engine, saying only, "Buckle up" before she peeled out, throwing him back against the seat.

Daryl hastily grabbed the belt and secured it, wondering for a moment if he'd made the right decision to accept the ride. "If you could drop me someplace where I can make a call from, I'd appreciate it."

The driver looked over at him, seemingly amused, and asked, "No cell phone?"

He shrugged and said, "Don't really believe in 'em. I figure anyone who needs me knows where to find me, and other than that, I'd just as soon they not."

"That's a refreshingly different viewpoint. Well, as far as somewhere to make a call, there's really nothing much between here and there, and just offhand I can't think of anyplace where there's a pay phone. What time are you supposed to be at work?"

Daryl checked his watch and said, "About fifteen minutes from now is when I said I'd be there, but it won't be a big deal if I'm late. I'm comin' in off-shift to fix somethin' they broke."

She shot a look at the dashboard clock, made a _tsk_ing sound, and said, "Yeah, that's probably doable."

He looked at her in surprise, saying, "But that's gotta be - what, seventeen miles or more?"

"Mm-hmm, it is. Now hush, and let me focus."

The woman drove fast, with a silent intensity that practically vibrated, and Daryl again questioned his choice to get in the car with her. He turned his body a little so he could watch her as she navigated the country road, downshifting smoothly and accelerating out of turns like a Grand Prix driver.

She was lean and pale, probably close to 5'5' or 5'6", with a short crop of gray-brown hair that curled just a bit over her collar. Her long, slender fingers held the wheel lightly, like she was guiding a dressage horse around the curves rather than the vintage Karmann Ghia. She was dressed all in black, from her skinny jeans to her scoop-neck tank to the thin cardigan she wore over top, which only accentuated the creamy skin of her neck and delicate collarbone. _Damn,_ he thought, _that's__ a fine-looking woman._

After a few minutes she seemed to relax some, and glanced over at him, a wry smile twisting her lips. "Trying to figure me out?" Her blue eyes locked on his for just a second before returning to the road, and Daryl felt a bolt of electricity hit him with her gaze.

"Well, yeah. Not many women alone would stop to pick up a strange man."

"So you're saying you're strange?" Her tone was teasing, and Daryl felt a little flustered.

"No, I meant…"

"I know what you meant."

They were starting to come into a more developed area, and that momentary connection evaporated as she disappeared back inside herself, concentrating on the road ahead. She drove like the car was an extension of her body, and as they encountered other vehicles she seemed to anticipate what the other drivers would do, passing them without apparent thought, slipping through what appeared to be impossibly narrow gaps, weaving between the cars with no hesitation or loss of speed, like she was acting out some kind of chase scene from a spy movie. Daryl felt his heart leap up into his throat, his pulse hammering in his head. She really was beginning to freak him out.

As they stopped for a traffic light, he stammered out, "Look, I… I don't really have to be there in this big a hurry."

She looked over at him, that glint of amusement in her eyes again, and said, "Maybe you don't, but I do." The light changed, and she floored it again, zipping past the vehicles in the adjacent lane and cutting over as soon as she was clear.

Trying to make conversation so he didn't have to think about the likelihood of dying, Daryl asked, "So why _did_ you pick me up, anyway? Seein' as how you couldn't know whether I was strange or not?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said, her voice sounding perturbed. "Death wish, maybe?"

Daryl shook his head. "You'll forgive me if that don't make me feel too comfortable. I mean, I _am_ pretty much at your mercy, here."

She chuckled, and then gave a big snort of laughter. "My mercy. _My _mercy. Hah! You know, I kind of like the sound of that. Someone being at _my_ mercy."

He couldn't for the life of him think of what to say to that, and he settled back into the seat, his fingers involuntarily clutching at the armrest as she whipped past a semi that had stopped in the roadway to turn into a business. They drove on for several more minutes in silence before she said, "You're quiet. I almost forgot a couple of times that you were even there." She looked sidelong for his reaction. "That's a compliment, by the way. It's rare that I… let myself relax that much around another person."

By now they were approaching the entrance to the plant, and he checked his watch. _Fourteen minutes_. It made his stomach clench a little. He pointed out the employee door, and she slowed to a stop in front of it.

"Beat my own record," she said, not seeming to take much pleasure in it. Daryl automatically thanked her for the ride and started to get out, but stopped himself, taking a deep breath.

"What are you runnin' from?" he asked, knowing he had no right.

She smiled bitterly, and said, "You are way too sharp for me, Mister Hitchhiker. How about if you let me hang on to some secrets, at least until the next time?"

He had to struggle to keep from gaping at her. "There's a next time?"

"Yeah," she said, tilting her head to look at him. "I think so. You're... restful to be around, somehow. I thought maybe, if you weren't going to be too long, I'd pick you up when you're done here and we could go have a cup of coffee."

"Jesus," he said, "Between the extra caffeine and your drivin', I'm not sure I'd live through it."

She grinned at him and said, "I promise, I'll take it down a notch or two. Wouldn't want you dying on my nice white upholstery."

Daryl considered her impish smile, and those impossibly blue eyes, and thought about how, no matter which way he went on this, he'd probably be making a huge mistake, but he asked, "So - what's your name, Secret Agent?"

She put out her hand, "I'm Carol."

He took it, and felt that jolt again as he did. "And I'm Daryl."

She smiled, and said, "Of course you are."

He looked at his watch and said, "Pick me up here in three hours, Agent Carol?" And he went inside, feeling like he'd been hit by a truck, and decided he kind of liked the feeling.


	2. Chapter 2

The blue Ghia was waiting outside the door when he came out, and he stopped, wondering what he was doing, agreeing to meet this very strange and beautiful woman. He didn't date much, found women in general to be frustrating and overly complicated. He liked things to be simple, and kept his life as uncluttered as possible, especially when it came to other people. Sometimes, though, simple made things… boring, and if he was honest with himself, he'd been hip-deep in a long stretch of boring. Too long, apparently, if it made him do such a thing as intentionally involving himself in whatever brand of crazy this woman was packing. He had to admit he was intrigued, though. Whatever Carol's story was, he was too curious to turn back at this point.

She rolled her window down and poked her head out. "Are we doing this or not, Hitchhiker?"

He couldn't help but grin. "I'm in. But you go easy on me. I'm just now recovered from our last little trip."

She started the engine up as he climbed into the passenger seat and clipped the belt around his waist. As he reached to shut the door, she goosed the gas pedal, and he grabbed for the dash before he realized she hadn't put it into gear yet.

"Oops. Sorry," she said, her contrite tone at odds with the wicked smile on her face.

"No, you ain't," he said. "You're enjoyin' this, torturin' me, and I don't even know why."

She shrugged, and said, "I think it must be a control thing. I'm having a stupidly good time putting that look of terror on your face. I know it's not fair, but… I don't get many opportunities to put the fear of God into anybody, let alone a good-looking man like you."

Daryl snorted and said, "I don't smell any alcohol on you, but talk like that would normally make me think you'd been drinkin'. The 'good-lookin' part, not the 'fear of God' part. You definitely scare the shit out of me."

She gave him a smug little smile, but all she said was, "You need to get out more, I think."

She pulled out of the parking lot at practically a sedate pace, and headed down the road toward Newnan, exceeding the posted speed limit by a much smaller margin than on their first drive together. This time Daryl was able to sit calmly and enjoy watching her expertly make her way through traffic, only feeling a tiny bit anxious when she squirted the little car through a red light at the last possible second. So maybe she wasn't all _that_ crazy, and she was undoubtedly good behind the wheel.

"So where'd you learn to drive like that, anyway?"

She didn't respond right away, and he figured maybe that was somehow another one of those secrets she'd talked about, but after a minute she said, "Nowhere in particular. I mean, I didn't take a class or anything, I just…" She drummed her fingers against the wheel, chewing on her lip. "I drive instead of going to a therapist. How screwed up is that? Gas is cheaper than paying for a shrink." And she shut up again and went back to tapping out that complicated rhythm on the wheel. _Okay, then, possibly crazy after all._ Maybe the crazy was catching, too, because for some reason that didn't make him nearly as nervous as he thought it should have.

Carol took them into the heart of the older part of town and parked a couple of doors down from a slightly seedy-looking diner. Not the kind of place that served four-syllable "coffee drinks," like he'd expected. He thought maybe he was starting to adjust to getting it wrong about her at every turn.

She pumped some change into the meter and jerked her head toward the front steps, saying, "C'mon. Best coffee in town, still less than two dollars a cup, free refills, and homemade cinnamon rolls to die for. My mouth's been watering for one all morning." Daryl thought she didn't look like she ever ate anything as decadent as a cinnamon roll. She didn't look like she ate much of anything at all, truth be told.

Carol's eyes lit up as she greeted the waitress with a hug. "Bonnie! Bonnie, this is Daryl. He hasn't had the pleasure of Kyle's baking, so we're going to need two cinnamon rolls - _please_ tell me there's still some left? - and two coffees." Daryl nodded in greeting to the older woman, who gestured at the nearly-empty room and said, "make yourselves at home wherever you like." To his surprise, Carol reached back and grabbed his hand, pulling him along behind her to an empty booth toward the back. She flopped down in the far corner with a grin and put her feet up on the bench across from her, and Daryl took a seat next to them, feeling like he'd gotten caught up in some sort of mad, unpredictable game.

Bonnie dropped off the rolls and coffee at their table and Carol immediately tore hers apart, stuffing a big, gooey chunk in her mouth, closing her eyes and moaning in delight. That throaty, deeply erotic sound went straight to Daryl's groin, and he sat up straight while surreptitiously trying to adjust the crotch of his jeans. "That good, huh?"

Carol's eyes popped open and she glared at him. "What the hell is wrong with you? The most gorgeous baked goods in all of Coweta County, and you're sitting there letting it get cold. I tell you, Kyle does _not_ like it when people don't show proper appreciation for his work, so if you ever want to come back here again, you need to step it up."

Daryl threw his hands up in surrender, saying, "Okay, geez. Didn't tell me there was an initiation involved, here. I'm eatin', alright?" His first bite was ambrosia. The second was nearly a religious experience. "Sweet Jesus, that's like a piece of heaven. How come I don't know about these folks?"

Carol smirked at him. "It's a closely-held secret. Kyle and Bonnie have owned this place for about five years, moved down from Ohio when they retired and bought it because Kyle always wanted to run a diner. They don't want to work like a couple of dogs in their golden years, so they keep limited hours and don't advertise. I think they're half-scared that word of mouth is going to explode one of these days and they won't be able to do things the way they like any more."

"So how'd you happen to come upon 'em? You don't live up this way, do you?"

"Oh, me, I'm practically family. I used to come in here and sit with a cup of coffee, pretty much all day, and Bonnie sort of adopted me when I was…" Her voice trailed off, and he looked up from his plate to see tears glistening in her eyes.

Daryl froze, caught halfway between reaching a hand out to her and looking away to give her some privacy.

Carol drew a long breath and blew it back out again with a faint whistle. She squared her shoulders and said, briskly, "Ancient history."

Daryl narrowed his eyes at her. "If you don't mind me askin'... what am I doin' here?"

Carol was silent, appearing to make an intensive study of her coffee cup, stirring it long after the cream was thoroughly mixed in. Eventually she came to some conclusion, whether about the quality of the coffee or her decision to drag him into her life, and said, "I spend entire days where I don't see or talk to anyone. Sometimes two or three days in a row. I wake up, and decide whether I even need to put on street clothes, and sometimes I get some work done, and sometimes I just sit on the back porch and watch the trees. And no one misses me. So sometimes I come here and let Bonnie spoil me for a couple of hours, and _sometimes_ I talk to complete strangers." She tilted her head in that way that he was beginning to recognize meant she wasn't sure how he was going to react, and said, "How about you? What made you decide to come for coffee with me, especially after I practically kidnapped you and took you on my one-woman road rally?"

He felt like he owed her the same kind of honesty she'd laid out in front of him, even though he thought she hadn't actually answered his question. "Because you're beautiful, and kinda sad, and you drive like a demon from hell and that's about the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life, even when it makes me feel like peeing my pants. And I spent two and a half hours this morning fixing somethin' that should have taken me less than an hour, because I couldn't stop thinkin' about you. And most of the time I'm pretty lonely, too. How's that set with you?"

A small smile flickered over her lips, and she reached over and touched the back of his hand. "You're a good sport, Daryl. I don't know too many people who would still be on board with me at this point."


	3. Chapter 3

Carol sat back and sipped her coffee, her eyes thoughtfully considering him above the rim. "So tell me more about you. What do you do there at the plant, and why are you lonely?"

Once again Daryl felt like she'd kicked him in the head. _Who did that, asked such a question so bold like that? _He'd never had such an odd, blunt conversation with _anyone_, not even his brother. Hell, compared to this, Merle's straightforward, usually crass communication style seemed positively convoluted.

"Well, as far as work, I'm their general fix-it guy and motor pool mechanic. I know my way around pretty much any kind of engine, I do repairs on the physical plant, everything except the turbines and the computers. As far as the other goes… I just ain't good with people. Never have been. How 'bout you?"

She shook her head, not like she was disagreeing, just saying she wasn't going to tell him, and he said, "Hey, fair's fair. You asked, I answered."

She looked squarely at him, her mouth a thin line. "Not like I held a gun to your head to make you say. Besides, that was a cheat answer."

"_Fuck,_" he spat in frustration. "Y'know what, I think maybe I'm done here after all. I thought we were gonna have a conversation, get to know each other a bit, but seems like you just want me to spill and not give much up in return. If this was a sex thing there'd be a nasty word for what you're doing, but I don't know as there's a phrase for 'emotional cocktease.'" He surprised himself by how passionately he felt; how much he wanted it, to know more about her. He pushed back in his seat and started to stand, but her hand grasped his wrist, and he looked down at it, seeing the white knuckles where she gripped.

"_Please,_" was all she said, and after a second he slumped back into the booth, despising himself for being such a thin-skinned jerk.

Her voice was tight, and she didn't look at him. "I had a daughter. She's dead." His head snapped up in shock. That was about the last thing he'd expected.

"My drunk bastard of an ex-husband killed her. He didn't mean to, but that doesn't matter, because she's gone, and I don't know how to be this person who isn't her mother anymore. So I do stupid things so I don't have to think about it, like drive too fast and reckless, and today I even picked up a hitchhiker. But I'm not suicidal; I never drive faster or take more chances than I can handle… and as far as the hitchhiker," her eyes came up to lock on his, "I keep a semi-automatic under the seat, and a knife in the door pocket. And I know what I'm doing with both. After Ed killed Sophia, I made sure that I'd never be in a position again where I couldn't defend myself and those I love. Not that it made an ounce of difference for her." Her voice was cold, flat.

Daryl felt sick to his stomach. "Christ, I am so sorry," he muttered. "I didn't have any business making you tell that. That ain't the kind of guy I am, really, but I'll understand if you don't wanna talk to me any more."

She sighed and stretched her legs further out, scuffing a booted toe against the wall. "No, I think it's okay," she said, after a few moments. "I haven't said all of that, straight out, since… well, since ever, I guess, and I think I needed to. And you didn't make me. I wanted to tell you. Why the hell _did_ I want to tell you, anyway? Maybe because I didn't feel like you'd judge me. Maybe because you have such pretty, kind eyes."

Daryl's head was spinning again, and he rubbed his hands over his face for a second and groaned. "Lady, I think maybe you are the nuttiest fruitcake I have met in a good long time," he said, gruffly. "But you're right, I ain't gonna judge. I got enough baggage of my own, between the two of us we could prob'ly set up a damn' luggage store."

She looked at him appraisingly and said, "That's the second time you've brushed it off when I've said you're nice to look at. You are, you know. Good-looking. Easy on the eyes. Kinda hunky, even," her voice almost making a joke of it, but not quite. He chuckled, despite how uncomfortable she was making him. "Do you really not know that? 'Cause if that's the case, then I sort of feel like I've made a discovery. Lana Turner in the drugstore, and all that."

He shook his head, embarrassed by the attention. "Stop, okay?"

She laughed. "Okay. No more talk about how you have gorgeous eyes, and incredibly broad shoulders, and although I haven't had a decent opportunity to check it out fully, I suspect a truly world-class ass."

His face was aflame. "_Shit_, lady, now you're just bein' cruel, here. What'd I do to deserve that?"

"Just your lucky day, I suppose," she said, dryly.

They sat like that for long minutes, in mirror image, each of them with legs stretched out onto the opposite bench. Bonnie came around to warm up their cups and eyeball Daryl like he was some kind of unusual specimen of bug. He suspected it was because Carol didn't usually share this booth with anyone, and he tossed the idea around his head for a while before concluding that he was pretty happy about that. He was damned if he understood what was going on between them, but mostly it felt natural, like they'd known each other for years and maybe had just been out of touch for a while.

"So, your turn, Carol. What do you do for a living?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Oh, and we were doing so well."

"What? That ain't a question I can ask?"

"No, it's okay, I just hate having to explain it all."

"Don't, then. I don't wanna make you feel uncomfortable."

She half frowned at him, and said, "I guess it shouldn't be a big deal, right? I'm… an artist. God, doesn't that sound pretentious. No, really, I _am_ an artist, I just don't make enough at it to pay the bills."

"Well, I guess that explains the quirks, then," he said, and yelped as she reached over and pinched his calf through the leg of his jeans.

"I'll give you quirks," she said tartly, and then covered her mouth and blushed bright pink. "Oh, god, _that_ didn't come off dirty at _all_, did it?"

He couldn't help it, he started to laugh, and she joined him, and he got to hear for the first time her real laugh, like church bells, full of joy and life and the little girl she once had been.

After a minute or two they ran down, snorting and both wiping their eyes. "Lord," she said, blinking, "I needed that." Her hand came out and grasped Daryl's, wrapping around his fingers and squeezing lightly. "You're a real tonic, Daryl, and I didn't realize how badly I needed one. I imagine this wasn't at all how you'd planned to spend your morning, so I apologize for kidnapping you and making you come eat cinnamon rolls with me, but I'm so glad I did."

"Nothin' you need to apologize for, Carol. It's my day off, and I woulda probably just gone home and, I don't know, read or fooled around with some project or somethin'. Done the laundry. And then I wouldn't have found out about the best cinnamon rolls in Coweta County..."

"...in Georgia," Carol corrected.

"...in Georgia," he agreed, "and I wouldn't have had the most confusing, frustrating, brain-busting conversation of my life with a smart, beautiful woman. So it sounds like a win-win to me."

Her eyes were sparkling, and he looked down at their joined hands and ran his thumb over her knuckles, marveling at the fine bones beneath the translucent skin there. Her fingers jerked a little beneath his, and he looked up. Her eyes had gone wide, and as he relaxed his grip she pulled away, her hand coming up to her chest almost like she'd scorched it. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"No need," she said faintly.

Both of them reached for their coffee cups and sought for something to break the tension that suddenly hung thick in the air.

Carol cleared her throat and said, "Well, I guess you'll be needing to call about getting your truck towed someplace. You can use my cell, if you'd like, or I'm sure Bonnie would let you use their phone."

"Don't need a tow, just a can of gas," Daryl said, his irritation with Merle coming back to him. "Damn' thing has a busted fuel gauge, and my idiot brother was apparently too drunk last night to remember to fill it up before he came home."

"Mm, and I'm guessing not for the first time. Sounds like there's a story there. Well, I can help you out on that, at least - there's a gas can in the garage at home. If you don't mind, we can stop by and pick it up - I don't live too far from where you left the truck - and we'll get you back on the road in nothing flat."

She was all business now, and Daryl realized that they'd somehow lost the thread of connection they'd had going for that little while, and he felt a tug of regret. More than a tug, even. He told himself he wasn't cut out for any sort of romance, anyway, or whatever it was that had been building between them, and he'd been a fool to get caught up in it.

Daryl looked up to catch Bonnie's eye, signaling for the check, and Carol said, "My treat. It's the least I can do for shanghaiing your day." She put the money down on the table and went to kiss Bonnie goodbye before they headed out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Daryl opened the door for her, and when he did the same at the car Carol looked at him strangely before sliding behind the wheel. He jumped in the other side and grabbed the seatbelt, shooting a look at her to make sure she wasn't going to pull the same stunt she had earlier, then settled back, bracing his feet against the firewall just in case.

Carol chose a route that bypassed most of the in-town traffic, apparently preferring scenery over haste this time. She seemed to be much more relaxed now than she had been that morning, although she was still impatient enough to cut around any slow-moving vehicles in their path.

After about twenty-five minutes she turned in between a pair of brick pillars topped with what likely had originally been gas lamps but now appeared to be merely decorative. The long drive wound beneath stately oak trees, eventually opening to show an enormous Victorian home, still impressive despite having obviously seen better days.

"This all yours?" asked Daryl, surprised at the scale of the place.

"Only the carriage house, I'm afraid. It belongs to a doctor in Newnan, been in his family for years, but it's sat empty for quite some time. I guess it's too much house for most folks. I thought about taking the whole place, but it'd be ridiculous for me to be knocking around in there all by myself, and in any case the price was a bit more than I thought was sensible, given my circumstances." She didn't go on to elaborate as to what those circumstances were, and Daryl thought that with his earlier misstep he probably shouldn't press.

She pulled the car around back to where a smaller building sat a distance away from the main house. The former carriage house had been updated recently with modern windows, and Carol pointed out how the old sliding doors had been fixed in place as part of the exterior wall of her apartment. Daryl looked up and saw two large skylights in the roof that appeared to have been installed around the same time as the windows.

Carol followed his eyes and explained, "They were renovating it when I first looked at the place last year, and I made a deal with the owner that I would cover the extra cost for the skylights if they'd take care of the additional labor. I think it was fair on both ends; even after I'm gone, I'm sure the next tenant will appreciate all that light. Plus they didn't have to divide it up into two rooms like they'd planned. That's my studio up there. I live on the first floor. Go ahead on in, it's unlocked."

He looked at her skeptically as he turned the knob. "You leave this place unlocked, but you pack a gun and a knife when you travel?"

She turned up a shoulder and said, "I lock up when I'm home, of course, but otherwise it seems silly. Nothing in there's worth anything to anyone but me." She brushed past him and turned on the overhead light.

The main living area was small but extremely neat, just a couch and a couple of small tables, and a kitchen took up one end of the room. The other walls were covered with framed photographs and artwork, and Daryl stepped closer to look at them. There was a central grouping of black and white photos that all featured a small child - running with a bunch of wildflowers in her hand, halfway up an apple tree, sitting on a concrete stoop with a kitten between her feet. He felt Carol come up behind him, and she said softly, "That's my Sophia. Wasn't she beautiful?"

Daryl nodded, his throat tightening. "You took all these? They're incredible. They really show how…"

"How _alive_ she was?" Carol's voice was wistful.

"Yeah, that too. I was gonna say, how much you loved her."

"I did. I still do. She was the most important thing I ever did," Carol said, her voice cracking, and she moved away from him, wiping a tear from her cheek. "Come upstairs with me for a minute, I want to show you what I'm working on."

He followed her up the narrow stairway to a open room with white walls, full of the afternoon light. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but the space had more of a feel of a workroom, rather than what he thought of as an artist's studio. Against one wall of windows stood a drafting table and a tall, wheeled stool, and next to it a long table held cans full of tools and a stack of wooden slabs of different sizes. Wooden racks along another wall were draped with sheets of heavy paper, and what appeared to be finished pieces hung from a length of clothesline that stretched along a third. The whole place held the scent of wood shavings and some sort of oil.

Daryl moved in to look at the finished work. "They're woodcuts - prints made from wooden blocks," Carol said. "I started out doing photography, like you saw downstairs, but after Sophia died I needed something different, something I could do with my hands. I had taken some printmaking classes in school, and the rawness of it fit somehow with how I was feeling."

Daryl could see what she meant. The images were both stark and detailed, human figures with twisted, gnarled limbs and tortured faces set out in heavy, rough lines of black and red ink, and intertwined with swirls and spirals and tree branches. Some of them incorporated lines of poetry, all speaking to matters of fear and loss. Some of the words had been printed as part of the image, but others seemed to have been slashed in with a paintbrush, in places covering parts of the print.

"As you can probably see, this is therapeutic for me, too. I haven't been able to let go of some of the more personal ones, yet, but the gallery in Atlanta where they hang some of my work keeps telling me there are buyers who would snap them up. I suppose I should think about recouping some of what I've spent making them, but I'm not ready yet."

"I don't really know what to say, Carol," Daryl told her. "I'm no kind of art critic, but this is some damn' powerful stuff you've got here. I can see you put a lot of yourself into it - I can understand why you'd have a hard time sellin' them off to someone who don't know what you've been through."

"And that's why I wanted you to see them. I knew you'd get it. You've been through some darkness yourself, I think." Her hand squeezed his forearm for a second. "We should probably go get that gas can now. I can't be taking up your whole day."

He wanted to tell her he couldn't think of a single thing he'd rather be doing than spending time with her, but it sounded outrageous even in his head, so he just followed her back downstairs and out the door.

The garage was just as tidy as the inside had been, and he took interested note of the array of tools along the walls. "You work on the car yourself?" he guessed.

"Only way I've kept it all these years," Carol smiled. "I bought it when I was in college, and it was a piece of crap back then. I learned as much as I could about fixing up the engine, mostly from friends, and bartered for the bodywork and other things I couldn't do myself. Ed refused to spend any of _his_ money on it; he'd have preferred I not have anything of my own, least of all a vehicle so I could control my own coming and going, but it was mine outright before we got married and there wasn't much he could say about it if I never asked him to pay for any upkeep."

"You're just a barrel full of surprises, lady," Daryl said, shaking his head. "This Ed sounds like a real piece of work, though. How'd you get stuck with a loser like that? You don't seem the type to let yourself get under anyone's thumb."

"Oh, you might be amazed. I wasn't always quite so self-reliant." Carol looked down at the ground, wrapping her arms around herself. "I didn't get asked out much when I was in high school. I was gawky and not very pretty, and I never really learned how to talk to boys. They were like some alien lifeform, as far as I was concerned."

She paused, glancing up at Daryl. "When I met Ed my second year of college, he just bowled me over, treated me like a queen, and I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. He was handsome and popular, and two years older, and he pursued me like I was some kind of prize, even though I wouldn't sleep with him until we got engaged. It's hard to resist that sort of attention when you've never had it."

"So when'd he show his true colors?"

"About two weeks after we got married. He was late getting home from work, and I'd let the roast get dry. He backhanded me into the kitchen door. That was the first time. Things just went downhill from there." She scuffed her feet in the gravel and said, "Look, can we get going? I don't really feel like dwelling on all that right now."

Daryl grabbed the empty gas can and popped the latch at the back of the car, startling as he discovered the engine compartment. "What the hell?"

Carol wrinkled her nose at him and said, "Thought you knew your way around a car, bright eyes? It's a Volkswagen; the trunk's up front."

"Never had the opportunity to work on one of these. Mostly stick with American-made, myself. You must think I'm a dumbass hick." He was still thinking of a comeback for that 'bright eyes' crack.

"Don't go feeling sorry for yourself, now. You didn't know." She pulled the latch to open the front end, and he stowed the can inside. "There's a station just down the road - we can get that filled up and you can be on your way."

"I'm beginnin' to think you're tryin' to get rid of me," Daryl said, and immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut. Of course she was - she probably had plenty of things to do besides haul his ass around the county, fixing a problem that wasn't hers to start with.

Carol stopped, one foot inside the car. "I'm confused, here - do you not need to gas up your truck and get home?"

Daryl winced internally and waved a hand at her, saying, "Never mind, ignore me. Yeah, we both got stuff to take care of, best we get on with it."


	5. Chapter 5

Carol was right about it taking no time at all to get his truck sorted out, and before he knew it, Daryl was standing on the side of the road with his keys in his hand, getting ready to say goodbye to her. And the only thing he could say for sure about what he felt was that he didn't want to let her go so quick.

She was leaning against the hood of her car, looking like there wasn't a thing in the world she needed from anyone, especially not from his sorry self, and he was just locked in place, unable to come up with a single reason why she shouldn't drive off and be gone from his life.

"Well…," he started, "Thanks. For pickin' me up this morning, and for showin' me your work, and for… all the rest of it." He closed his eyes and wished the ground would open up and save him from making a complete ass of himself, and realized he'd probably already passed that point. He wondered if Georgia ever had spontaneous sinkholes, like they did down in Florida. When he opened them again, she had that look on her face, like she wanted to laugh at him but was too nice.

"It was a good day for me, too, Daryl. I can't remember the last time I could talk to anyone as easily as it's been with you, and I want you to know I appreciate it, and your willingness to go along with my whims. Almost made me feel normal for a day, and that's a rare gift." She pushed off of the car and stuck out her hand.

He couldn't bring himself to just shake it, like this was some kind of business deal that had gone well. So he reached out with his left instead, and took hold of her fingers, and said in a rush, "Have dinner with me tonight." He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

"What did you say?" Her voice wavered, and he saw he'd rattled her, which was not what he'd meant to do at all.

"We ain't done talkin'. I meant to tell you about Merle, and I want you to explain to me about how you make those prints of yours, and _Jesus_ but I sound like a pathetic bastard, don't I. Look, just say you'll have dinner with me."

"This isn't your way of trying to pay me back for helping you out, is it? Because you don't owe me anything for that," she said, uncertainly.

"What? Oh, _hell_, no. If anything, you still owe _me_, for takin' a couple years off my life with that crazy-ass driving of yours." He could hardly control the grin that wanted to pop out on his face.

"Okay, then. I'll have dinner with you. Where, and when?"

Now he really did have to smile. "How about if I pick you up at seven? Oh, and how do you feel about ridin' on a motorcycle? I don't wanna drive this piece of shit any more than I have to until that gauge gets fixed."

She raised an eyebrow, and her eyes glittered. "That's one thing I've never gotten around to doing, believe it or not. You can be my first motorcycle ride."

"Hot damn," he said. "Don't know as I've ever been anyone's first time before."

* * *

Carol was waiting in the doorway when he pulled up on the Triumph. He'd told her the place they were going wasn't fancy and that what she had on was just fine, but it looked like she'd spruced herself up a bit nonetheless. She'd put on just a touch of lipstick, and her cheeks were pink, but he thought maybe that was just because she was excited about her first ride. She'd changed her top, too, something pale blue and a little clingy.

She closed the door behind her and almost skipped out to the bike. "Here," he said, "Helmet's a must, and you probably want to put this on, too," and handed her a leather jacket. "Breeze gets a little chilly. It'll be too big for you, but it's better than you freezin'."

She slipped the jacket on and zipped it closed, and Daryl couldn't help but laugh at how it hung so long on her, almost down to her thighs, and her hands disappeared into the cuffs. She looked like someone's little sister, dressing up in a grown-up's coat.

"Don't you make fun of me, Hitchhiker. I'm nervous enough about this as it is."

"What are you nervous about? I'm gonna take good care of you. Just hop up here in back, and hang on to my waist. I'll take it slow at first so you get the feel of it."

She climbed on and laid her hands on both sides of his waistband. "Okay, I'm ready."

He reached back and pulled her hands forward to hold him more closely around his ribs. "Scoot up a little. When you feel me lean into a curve, you just follow me. That helps keep us balanced, okay?"

"Why do I get the feeling you're taking advantage of this situation?" she muttered.

"Hey, I'm bein' nothing but gentlemanly, here. I just wanna make sure you don't fall off."

She gave a little squeak of anxiety and pushed forward until he could feel her chest up against his back and her thighs around his hips, both of which were just fine with him, and didn't have to mean he was a depraved lech at all.

Out of sheer cussedness, he opened it up a little too fast and spun some gravel, and she shrieked and grabbed hard against him. He let the bike roll to a stop, and she swatted him across the back of his arm. "You did that on purpose!"

He turned to catch her eye and said, "Ain't payback a bitch?"

She just glared, and he said, "Okay, okay, I've had my fun, let's get this show on the road."

Once she eased up a bit on the death grip she'd taken around his middle, Carol was the perfect passenger. She didn't try talking to him, just held on and relaxed into the ride. At one point she rested her head against his back and her hands tightened on his ribs for just a moment, but before he could slow down to ask if there was a problem she'd loosened her grip, and it didn't happen again.

They rolled into the parking lot at Willie's Cat Shack at dusk and climbed the worn steps to the front porch, where a couple of men were wrangling an amp through the door. "Perfect," Daryl said. "We're here in time to grab a decent table and get our food before the real crowd hits."

Stepping inside, he yelled over the jukebox, "Hey, Frank!" and held up his leather and helmet. The bartender came over and they slapped hands, the volume of the music making any conversation difficult. Daryl added Carol's borrowed jacket and helmet to the pile, which disappeared behind the bar.

"So this is your regular hangout?" Carol asked. It seemed to fit him - a little rough around the edges, but the greetings people gave Daryl as they came through were warm and genuine, just like him.

"Yeah, I guess, as much as I got one. The original 'Willie' was my great-uncle, although I never knew him. Frank bought the place about thirty years ago, and I been comin' here since I was old enough to drive. They're sticklers about legal drinkin' age, though. I mostly came for the music, back then, and I still do."

Daryl guided her between the tables, his hand in the small of her back, and out the door to a deck that ran the length of the building. "Oh!" Carol said. "It's right on the river! You can't even tell, from out front." They chose seats at the far end of the deck, where they could look over the water. "Should still be able to hear ourselves out here even after the band gets started," Daryl said.

"What kind of music, do you know?" Carol asked.

"To be honest, I don't even know who's playin' tonight. Could be country, could be blues, I don't much care. I just like hearin' live music. I can't play a note, but I love listenin' to people who can. I can ask Frank, if you wanna know." She shook her head, apparently content to let it be a surprise.

Daryl had grabbed a couple of menus when they came in, and passed one to her, saying, "It's pretty much a catfish-and-fries kind of place; you can try somethin' else if you want, but if you like catfish you can't go wrong with that." By the time a waitress made her way out to them Carol had settled on her choice, and Daryl put in their order for two catfish specials and two draft beers. They were both famished, neither of them having had anything to eat all day other than coffee and those oversized cinnamon rolls.

"I like that you didn't turn up your nose at a place like this," he told her. "There's been women who would never even have gotten on the bike with me, let alone been okay with sittin' at a splintery ol' picnic table drinkin' a beer."

Carol sipped at her draft and looked carefully at him. "I've always been pretty open to new things, and most of the time I find if I can look past the surface, what's inside can be pretty great." Her eyes were a little sly as she said it, and Daryl felt a prickle, like maybe she wasn't just referring to Willie's.

The food arrived quickly, and they tucked in, all conversation postponed until they filled their bellies. Daryl got a kick out of watching Carol dive in with enthusiasm; for a such a slender little thing she didn't just pick at her food as he might have expected. When the fish baskets were down to crumbs, they sat back and pulled uncomfortably at too-tight waistbands.

"Okay," Carol said, returning to her beer, "Now that we're settled in for a while - who is Merle, exactly?"

Daryl looked surprised. "Merle? He's my brother - why?"

She looked down at her lap and smiled a little. "This afternoon, when you asked me out, you said you had wanted to tell me about Merle. You hadn't called him by name before that, but you seemed so earnest about it, I thought it was kind of - odd. I guess I understand now, or at least why you mentioned him."

"Oh," Daryl said, thinking, _hey, I actually asked her out. Didn't feel like that at the time_. "Yeah, Merle. He's…" He tried to come up with a diplomatic description, and failed miserably. "Merle's an asshole."

Carol laughed, then quickly stifled it. "I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't laugh. From what you've said, he sounds like a trial."

"Where do I even start? That is, if you want to hear all this." She nodded quickly. "Merle… is pretty much all I got left as far as family. He's ten years older than me, and when I was a little sprout I thought he'd hung the moon. Used to follow him out huntin', and he let me, didn't even get pissed off when I scared off the game by trippin' over a branch or somethin'. He showed me how to do it the right way, how to move quiet, how to spot the trace where an animal'd passed. I learned a lot from him back then. It's some of the best memories I have."

"What happened to him since then?" Carol asked quietly.

"Our old man is what happened. He was a mean drunk, and Merle… well, Merle was never one to back down from a fight, not even when he was just a kid. He'd go down swingin', and the old man'd just keep beatin' his ass until he couldn't get up again." His voice was thick.

"You don't have to tell me any more, if you don't want," Carol said.

"No, it's okay, if you can stand to hear it. You know how you said earlier that you thought you needed to tell? That's how I'm feelin'. I ain't ever really told anyone how it is with Merle. There ain't really been anyone to tell, before now."


	6. Chapter 6

Daryl leaned back against the deck rail and put it all together in his head for a minute. "The old man died in a fire when I was eight. I was out playin', and when I came home - fire trucks everywhere, people from the neighborhood. It was my house they were there for." He sighed. "The two of them had got shit-faced and fell asleep. Fire marshal said it was likely a cigarette caught the couch on fire. The old man got out, went back in for her, got burned up pretty bad. Saved her, but he died in the hospital a couple days later.

"He loved her, I guess, seein' as how he went back to get her. Or maybe he just couldn't stand to lose his favorite punching bag. I never did understand it; still don't."

Carol had her hand on his wrist, rubbing her thumb over his pulse. He hadn't even noticed when she'd started that.

"Mom got sober, bought the house up here with the insurance money, worked a couple jobs to keep us in food and clothes. Took good care of me, like she hadn't really done before. Too late to do much good for ol' Merle, though. He'd been in and out of juvie for years already, and when the old man died he was in county lockup, lookin' at serious time 'cause he was past eighteen. He's spent more time locked up than he's been loose, I think. Merle's a hothead, and he don't take well to someone else runnin' the show, but he's full of big dreams and he don't always think things through, and that's what gets him in trouble. That, and the booze."

Carol remembered how Daryl had described it, _too drunk to remember to fill it before he came home_. "So he lives with you now?"

"We live together," Daryl corrected, although Carol wasn't clear on the distinction. "Mom left the house to the both of us. She died when I was twenty-three, from cancer. Got to see me graduate high school, get started on a decent job. She was always on me about givin' her grandbabies, but I couldn't see it. Closest I ever got was a girl I went to school with, but I scared her off." He stopped and scowled. "You sure you wanna hear this?"

"Go on," Carol said. "You know about most of my skeletons now, I feel like I should hear yours."

"Man, talk about things I don't understand," he groused.

"What happened is, I raised my hand to that girl. Got piss-drunk on beer and accused her of gettin' with my best friend. They were friends, and I knew that's all it was, but I got jealous of how they were together. I watched myself raise that hand, saw myself ready to hit her, and it made me sick. I walked away, but we were done. I couldn't trust myself, and I thought I'd rather die than be my old man all over again."

Daryl stood up and strode quickly inside, coming back with an ashtray, a loose cigarette he'd bummed off of someone, a bottle of Southern Comfort and two glasses. "D'you mind?" he said, holding up the cigarette.

"Not a bit, as long as you let me have a hit or two off of it."

He cracked the seal on the bottle and poured himself a couple of ounces, tilting the bottle toward the second glass as if to ask Carol if she wanted to join him. She nodded, and they sat back and sipped at it, silently toasting having survived their respective demons. He lit up the cigarette, and they passed it back and forth until it burned to the filter.

The tables around them were starting to fill with couples and groups, and they didn't object when a small group asked if it was alright to take the other end of the table. They kept their voices low out of habit, in any case.

Daryl poured them each another drink, and recapped the bottle, setting it on the table. Carol watched him, and asked, "Do you ever feel like you need to worry about how much you drink?"

"Not usually, no," he said. "I never could really relax and just get hammered for no reason, you know? That's probably due to the old man, too, like I'm always lookin' for things to blow up and can't afford to get caught sleepin'. Nah, this'll pretty much be it for me tonight. I don't usually even drink the hard stuff, but I thought this bein' a special occasion and all… Plus it softens the tellin'." He didn't need to explain any further to her.

"My dad was a cocktail hour man, which I guess is why I didn't think anything of the way Ed drank, at first," Carol said. "Truthfully, though, I don't know that he wouldn't have hit me even if he was stone-cold sober. I think the alcohol just made it easier for him to hide it from himself.

"I left him when I found out he'd given me a case of gonorrhea." Her voice got harsh, and she said, "I'd always known he was unfaithful, but I was too stupid to think it through, that he was enough of a selfish pig not to use a condom with _them_. I knew then that I was lucky he didn't get HIV and bring that home, too. That was the capper for me - that he could have killed us both just to get his dick wet, and our girl would have been left an orphan. First thing I did when I got out of that house was get an AIDS test, and I was never so relieved in my life as when it came back negative."

She looked over at Daryl and said, "I'm sorry, that was pretty uncouth of me, but it's the truth. All the hitting and covering up and lying was alright with me, apparently, but a case of the clap…"

Daryl reached out and covered her hand with his, and said, "Everybody's different in what pushes them over the edge. You did what you thought was best in the circumstances." He paused before asking, "But you left him _before _Sophia died? I just assumed... Can I ask…?"

Her expression was bleak. "I suppose since you've heard this much I may as well tell you the rest. Yes, we had already left. He had me followed, hired a private investigator hoping to catch me doing something that he could use against me if - when - I filed for divorce. He broke into our apartment one night, drunk, and chased me up the stairs. I had a lamp in my hand, and so help me god I would have smashed his head with it, but Sophia…"

She choked and put her face in her hands, and her shoulders started to shake. Daryl quickly moved around the table and slid in beside her, wrapping his arms around her, ignoring the crowd. "_Ssshhh_… you don't have to say any more, you _don't_," but she looked up at him with tears in her eyes.

"Let me finish it, Daryl, and then I don't have to talk about it any more."

"Wait, then, you don't have to be doin' this all out in public, with people starin'." He asked the group at the other end of their table to hang onto their seats, and passed the rest of the bottle of Southern Comfort down to them by way of motivation. He took Carol's hand and pulled her to the other end of the deck, where a set of stairs led them down to the water's edge. He put his arms around her, holding her tight against his chest. "It's okay, you're safe now, you can tell me if you need to."

Carol's voice was strained, but her eyes were dry. "Sophia came up behind him; she was trying to protect me, and Ed swung his fist back, and he hit _her_ instead of me. It knocked her down the stairs, and she hit her head and fractured her skull. They did surgery, but she never came out of it, and after two weeks I had them remove the respirator so she could be at peace.

"They offered to let him plead guilty to manslaughter, because the prosecutor didn't think they could get a conviction for murder. He'll probably only serve a few more years. He didn't challenge the divorce when I filed, on the advice of his attorney, I suppose; he quit-claimed his share of the house, and I signed over my rights to his pension and some other investments, just so I could be clear of him. I sold the house, and for the past fourteen months I've been living in that little house and trying to keep my sanity, because _I'm_ the one that got my little girl killed."

He looked at her in horror and sympathy. "Jesus, Carol, you can't really think that. That bastard is the only one should be payin' for that, and though it don't sound to me like he got near enough punishment to make up for what he did, that don't mean you have to shoulder the rest. You gotta forgive yourself, or else you're never gonna be able to get on with your life. And she wouldn't - _Sophia_ wouldn't want you to go on carrying all this guilt."

"I could have tried harder to get us out, Daryl. I should have done it _for her_, because she shouldn't have had to see her father beat her mother, or listen to it happen in another room. I was the adult, and I should have done more to keep her safe. And instead, she thought she had to take care of me, and she died trying to do that."

"I never been in your shoes, Carol, but I've seen this before, not just my own family, but others. _It ain't your fault._ It goes back to Ed every time, Ed, and how Ed was raised, and on back to the first one of his asshole ancestors that was so scared of himself that he hit his own wife and kids to keep 'em from leaving his sorry ass behind. _Not you._ You gotta believe me, I know what I'm talkin' about. _It ain't on you._"

Carol leaned into his chest and took a deep breath, sighing it out against his skin. "Keep telling me that, Daryl; I'm almost beginning to think I _could_ believe you." She tipped back her head and searched his face, saying, "So, what would you say to taking me out for another ride?"

"Not right now," he said. "Right this minute, I think I wanna take you back upstairs and get you out on the dance floor for a spin. The band's gettin' ready to start up, and I cut a mean two-step. You up for that?"


	7. Chapter 7

Daryl followed Carol back up the stairs to the deck. He'd checked out the band earlier, when he went in for the bottle, and recognized it as one he'd caught there before, the Newnan Ramblers. They were a western swing outfit, and their twangy tunes were a lot of fun to dance to. Given how gracefully Carol moved, he couldn't wait to get her out there on the floor. They could both use the distraction, and it didn't hurt a bit that two-step was a partner dance that would allow him to have her in his arms again. Even though he'd meant it as comfort, holding her against him down there by the river had felt… right. Like she was supposed to be there. It almost made him dizzy, how perfectly she'd fit.

Carol paused in the doorway. "I don't know about this, Daryl - I mean, I've _seen_ people two-step, but I've never _done_ it. For that matter, I haven't been on a dance floor in so many years, I'm not sure I remember how."

"You're in luck, then, 'cause this is one of my favorite things, and I ain't half-bad at it. We can watch for the first couple go-'rounds, if you like, so you get the feel of it. It's 'quick-quick slow, quick-quick slow.' That's all there is to it, just 'quick-quick slow.' And I'll be right there with you, so you know you'll be in good hands."

A bright smile spread over her face, and she said, "I'm all yours," and he thought his heart would jump right out of his chest.

Daryl pulled Carol off to the side to let her watch, and before long she was tapping her foot to the music and unconsciously twitching her hips and knees in time to the dancers' movements. The next number started out with a little honky-tonk piano, and he put his hand on Carol's hip and swept her out onto the dance floor, feeling her hand come up onto his shoulder like it belonged there, and taking her free hand in his. He looked down into her eyes and said, "Just trust me, I got you. Remember, 'quick-quick slow.' " He started to move, and she followed his lead, looking down at their feet until he let go of her hip and tipped her chin up. "Don't need to look down there, I promise I won't step on you. Just relax and go with it." She smiled and stepped in a little closer to him, and he let his fingers curl around her waist.

She caught the feel of it pretty quickly, and after a couple of missteps that bumped their hips together, she let go, and the tension melted out of her. She felt as light as a breeze in his hands, and they slipped around the floor together like they'd been doing this for years. Before Daryl knew it, the tune was ending, and Carol's eyes were shining like big blue diamonds, and she was clapping and laughing.

She grabbed his hand and dragged him out the door to the deck, and the second his feet hit the boards she turned; without a word she was in his arms, her hand coming up on the back of his neck and pulling him down to her lips. He froze for a second, and then pushed her over against the wall, meeting her mouth and wrapping his fingers in her curls. She moaned a little, and her tongue flickered out over her teeth and into his mouth. His hand came up to catch her chin, and he took her lower lip between his teeth and leaned his hips into her, pressing her up against the boards. She pulled her head back, breaking the kiss, and stared at him, breathing hard.

He took half a step back from her and shook his head to clear it, hearing scattered applause and wolf-whistles from those few fellow patrons who were still seated around the deck. Carol's eyes were wide and fixed on him, her hand pressed to her mouth, her cheeks flushed.

He started to say, "Where the hell did…" and she started with "I didn't mean…," and they both stopped and looked at each other.

"Wow," Daryl said finally. "Like I said, you're full of surprises." Carol wore a shocked expression; apparently he wasn't the only one who'd been surprised by that kiss. He took her hand and led her back over to the far table, saying casually, "Can I get you somethin' to drink, like a Coke?" He'd seen something in her eyes that read to him like panic, and he wanted to give her some space, let her know she didn't have to freak out, whatever had prompted her to kiss him like that. As far as he was concerned, it could just have been an impulse; didn't necessarily mean anything more than she'd been all wired up from the dancing. Didn't mean she felt something for him.

But oh, he wanted it to.

He snuck behind the bar and grabbed a couple of bottles of Coca-Cola from Frank's personal stash, figuring he'd confess later; right now there was a woman out there who, if he was any judge, was probably having a meltdown about publicly macking on a man she barely knew.

She was sitting with her back to him when he went back out, her hands combing restlessly through her hair. She startled as he came up behind her and dropped onto the bench across from her, handing her one of the dopes.

"You okay?" he asked. She nodded, the corners of her mouth turned down in dismay. She was embarrassed. "Hey. You looked good out there, dancin'. Would never've known you hadn't done it before; you're a natural."

One side of her mouth came up. "You're being awfully sweet to me, Daryl, considering I just threw myself at you." He could barely hear her above the music from the next room.

"Yeah? Seemed to me like I caught you, too, didn't I? You didn't see me pushin' you away."

"I'm sorry I did that, though," she said, ruefully. "I don't normally… attack people."

He chuckled. "And that makes it pretty much of a piece with the rest of this day, wouldn't you say? I don't know about you, but 'normal' ain't what I would call any of it. You pickin' up a strange man on the road, me takin' you up on coffee even after you scared me half to death, you havin' me to your house - 'cause I'm pretty sure that was a first, am I right?" She nodded, and her face brightened just a little. "Besides, you sayin' you're sorry makes it sound like you regret it, and that would be a shame, 'cause _I don't._"

Her cheeks colored up a little again, and he reached out to pat her hand. "Now, I like the sound of that tune they're playin' in there, and it would be a shame to waste those new skills of yours, givin' up after just one dance. Drink the rest of your Coke, and then let's go give it another try, okay? And no fresh stuff this time." He gave her a wink, but she didn't even seem to notice, in her discomfort.

She followed him back to the dance floor and stepped up to him like before, but her eyes wouldn't meet his, and she felt stiff in his hands. The twang of the guitar was working on him, and he wanted to kick loose, but she couldn't seem to get that feel back and stumbled a time or two, knocking against his knee and stepping on the toe of his boot. "_Relax_, darlin'." He lifted the hand from her hip and briskly rubbed up and down her back for a second, trying to reassure her. He looked down just as she tilted her head up, and her forehead caught him under the nose and made him see stars.

"_Shit_." Daryl stumbled back a pace and clamped his fingers over his nostrils, trying to feel whether she'd bloodied him. Carol gasped and put both hands over her mouth, her eyes round with worry. He stepped out of the way of the other dancers and gingerly grasped his nose, blinking and working it back and forth a couple of times before he sniffed, confirming there was no real harm done. "_Ow_. Well, _that_ sucked." Carol looked to be on the verge of crying, and he felt badly. "Hey, no big deal," he said, "I've taken way worse punches than that in my day, and most of those folks I didn't like half as much as I like you, so quit lookin' like you just ran over my dog."

Carol snickered and let go a relieved breath, and some of the tension seemed to leave her. "Are you sure you're alright? You don't need to put some ice on that?"

He probed at his nose again for a second and shook his head. "Nah, I'm good. Come on over here, would you?" She came up close, and he hugged her and patted her on the back, like any friend would. "I'm okay. You didn't hurt me, not really, and half that was my own fault anyway. You're gonna have a bruise, though, you know that?" He touched a finger to the mark at her hairline.

Her fingers met his, tracing over the spot where they'd collided. She screwed up her face in disgust. "I bruise so easily, I'm not surprised. Is it going to look too bad, do you think?"

Daryl shrugged and said, "Don't think so, but it don't matter. It'll fade in a short while, and you'll still be beautiful." He stopped abruptly and mashed his lips flat, eyeing her uneasily. Wasn't the first time he'd called her that, but that was before she had kissed him like she might have meant it.

This time when she stepped into him, she was soft, and she wrapped her hands in the front of his shirt and lifted herself up on tiptoe to touch her lips to his. "Daryl," she said quietly, "Would you dance with me if I promise not to head-butt you again?"

He snorted in spite of himself and said, "Hell, I'd dance with you even if you _were_ gonna head-butt me."

She looked at him and shook her head in disbelief, saying, "Gotta say, that's pretty romantic, Hitchhiker."

When she moved into his arms, she'd shed all that awkwardness and hesitation, and he spun her around the floor, losing himself in her laugh. He even put on some fairly flashy moves, dipping Carol back over his arm, and twirling her around two or three times in a row without stopping. When the song ended, she wrapped her arms around his neck and sagged against him, panting and giggling. "That's it, I can die happy now."

They headed back to their table and their now-tepid soft drinks. Daryl leaned back against the rail and stretched out to put his feet up. "You quittin' on me, or just takin' a breather?"

Carol took a long pull on her Coke bottle before sighing. "I'd love to keep going, Daryl, but honestly, I'm starting to run out of energy. I'm not a kid anymore, and it's been sort of a stressful day, you know? Not all bad-stressful, but it takes a lot out of you no matter what."

Daryl nodded in resigned agreement, knowing that they still had half an hour's ride to get her home, and that the morning would come far too quickly as it was, but still feeling a sort of dull ache when he considered going home alone to the little house he shared with his brother: not after the day he'd had. Not after she'd been dropped into his life like some kind of human vitamin shot, waking him up and making him want _more_.

None of it on its own might seem like much to anyone else, but taken in total - the morning's mind-boggling road race; the discovery of Bonnie and Kyle's homey little place, which he knew he'd be going back to at every opportunity; Carol's revelations of her past life and the amazing art she was creating out of its ashes; and now, whooping it up with her on the dance floor, just delighting in the physicality and enjoying each other's company - he might not have realized before what had been missing from his life, but he knew now he couldn't go back to just ambling along without feeling this connection. He didn't want to go it alone any more, and he thought, just maybe, there might be a chance that Carol was feeling the same way.


	8. Chapter 8

Daryl retrieved their gear from behind the bar and followed Carol out to the bike. She slid up behind him and took hold of his waist as if she'd always ridden there, and he eased out of the lot, making sure he didn't spin in the gravel and spook her.

Their ride was silent and easy, and if from time to time she held him a little tight, he knew it probably wasn't because she was scared.

When they got back to her place, she took his hand and led him inside, stopping only to drop their helmets and jackets on the couch, and he followed her out the back door to a little deck that looked down on a stream and a grove of oak trees. They sat, side by side, on an old metal glider that creaked and hissed beneath them.

"I get my best thinking done out here," Carol said, breaking the quiet that had held them since they'd left Willie's.

"What sort of things do you think about?"

"Oh, you know - what I need to be working on… my grocery list… how long I can keep trying to do the artist thing full-time before my money runs short… I think tomorrow I'm going to need to add, 'how picking up hitchhikers isn't necessarily a bad thing, even when it makes your life more complicated.'"

"I can see how you might wanna give that some thought. I expect, if you weren't lookin' for such a thing, a complication like that could mess up how you have your life set." He put his arm around her and pulled her closer. "I expect if you were the kind of person who was used to doin' without other people most of the time, that kind of complication might be pretty scary."

"I expect you'd be right," she said, and leaned into his side. "Scary, but a little exciting, too. It's easy to get too comfortable with the way things are, and you can forget to look for how things can be better, until something comes along to shake you out of your rut."

"I've heard that goin' out for a nice drive can help with that sometimes," he said, and she poked him in the ribs with her elbow and settled in against him with a sigh.

After a while he realized her breathing had gone slow and regular, and he laid his cheek against the top of her head and let her doze.

Sometime later he woke, feeling chilled and damp from the dew, and shifted on the cold metal seat. "Carol," he said, quietly. She mumbled and turned her face into his chest. "Carol, honey, it's time to go to bed."

Her voice was muffled. "Nice try, Hitch, but if you think you're getting laid, you're sorely mistaken."

He snorted and said, "I'd be lyin' to you if I told you I had no such idea in mind, but it's late, and I gotta get on the road if I'm gonna be at work on time tomorrow."

They both rose stiffly from the glider and made their way back inside, where Daryl picked up his helmet and jacket. He looked at the gear she'd worn, and said, "How about if I leave those here for now, in case you wanna come ridin' with me again some time?"

She walked with him to the door, and he got serious, and said, "You know you ain't seen the last of me, right? I don't know what this is, but I got no intention of lettin' you get away from me before we figure it out."

"I'm not going anywhere, Daryl." And she kissed him softly on the mouth, and locked the door behind him.

Shortly after dawn the next morning, he was sitting outside her door, the Triumph idling beneath him. The door opened, and Carol looked out at him, and went back inside, leaving the door open behind her.

He took a seat at the table while she made a pot of coffee and came to sit next to him in her cotton nightgown. "I needed to come by, make sure I hadn't dreamed you up. I didn't mean to wake you."

She wrinkled her nose at him and said, "I'm always up with the birds. I didn't sleep all that soundly last night, though - I kept having motorcycle dreams."

"Me, too," Daryl said, "except it was Indy cars in mine."

When he'd finished his cup of coffee, Carol kissed him and said, "Best you get to work now, Hitch. Come by when you're done, I'll fix you something to eat, and I'll show you how I make my prints. We can talk. I'll be waiting."

* * *

**One Year Later:**

For the first time anyone could remember, Willie's was closed, and a sign on the door said, "PRIVATE PARTY."

The cake was provided by Kyle Blaine, whose little diner in Newnan had gotten written up in an Atlanta paper and overnight turned into a local hotspot. Rumor was, Kyle was talking about selling, and his customers were talking about a petition drive to keep him there.

The Newnan Ramblers were set up to play for the reception, once all the band members were finished with their duties as witnesses to the nuptials.

The groom wore a leather jacket and rolled up on a beat-up old Triumph motorcycle with apehanger handlebars, and the bride drove herself to the festivities in a restored powder blue Karmann Ghia convertible. Her silvery hair was wind-blown, but she didn't seem to mind that a bit.

The happy couple had recently bought the big old brick Victorian that had belonged to Dr. Jacobs' family, and were turning it into a bed and breakfast. The groom was apparently good with his hands, and anyone who'd been inside reported that it was going to be a real showplace.

The best man was the groom's brother, who supposedly had been sober now for four months, which was longer than anyone who knew him could recall in past, and word was that he might actually have turned the corner this time.

Kyle's wife Bonnie was the bride's only attendant, and she cried so much that some folks mistook her for the woman's mother.

They had written their own vows, and when the bride called her groom "Hitch" instead of his name, he got a soft twinkle in his eye, and when he called her "Andretti," she got a little misty.

At the reception, in between dances, their guests traded guesses about how the two of them had really met; any time they'd been asked over the previous year, they'd given differing answers. Sometimes it was that they'd met right here at Willie's, and he'd won her heart on the dance floor; sometimes it was that she'd taken the last of Kyle's cinnamon rolls from under his very nose one day, and he'd had to beg her to split it with him. Merle swore that she'd picked his brother up on the road one morning and the two of them had been knocking boots ever since, but everyone knew that Merle had a lecherous mind, so no one took his version seriously.

Whatever the real story was, they just smiled at each other, and kept it to themselves.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for all the enthusiastic reviews for this - it's significantly different from anything I've done before, and I really loved writing it.

A couple of explanations:

Agent Maxwell Smart drove a Karmann Ghia in the 1960s TV series, "Get Smart."

"Dope" is an old name for Coca-Cola, harking back to when it was really made with a dash of cocaine; the term is still used in the South.

"Andretti" is for Mario Andretti (or his son Michael), who was a champion race car driver.

Daryl is uncharacteristically free in this, mainly because his father died in the fire rather than his mother, meaning that he never suffered the kind of savage beatings implied in the show. As a result, he turned out to be a much more emotionally accessible guy, but still had the experience of seeing his father's violence, which let him empathize with Carol's story.


End file.
